Rogue's Charade Page 17

  “If you could have one thing in the world, what would it be?”

  “One thing? I don’t—family,” she blurted out. “A real family, of my own.”

  His eyes were opaque again. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “What of you?” she asked, caught by his gaze.

  He shrugged and rose, untangling his long legs easily. “Freedom, I suppose. To clear my name.”

  He was standing very near, so that she had to crane her head to see his face. There were lines of strain about his eyes that were new, and a tightness to his mouth. “Do you think you can?”

  “I need to try. Can I trust you?”

  She didn’t think twice. “You know you can.”

  “Aye.” His gaze was so searching she wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. “I do know that. I am going to leave the troupe,” he said, turning away.

  “What?” She hurried to catch up with him. “You can’t, ‘tis too dangerous—”

  “I have to clear my name,” he repeated, stopping and turning to her. “I cannot do that here.”

  Blythe pursed her lips. “Where will you go?”

  “Wherever I can find the answer.” He looked down at her at last. “I have to do this, Blythe.”

  She bit her lip. She understood the pull of a long-held and cherished dream, and yet she feared for him. “Simon.”

  He turned to her. “What?”

  “Did you—oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  “What is it you want to know, princess?” His eyes had narrowed. “What you’ve asked me before?”

  “No, ‘tis none of my concern—”

  “But it is, princess, it is.” He laughed, a bitter sound. “You want to know if I committed the crime I’m convicted of. How would you feel if I said I was?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blythe’s breath drew in sharply. “Surely you aren’t.”

  He gazed down at her, keeping his face still. “What do you think?”

  “I...” She held his gaze for a moment, and then looked away, giving him his answer. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. “I don’t know,” she said. “We all play roles, Simon. You’ve taught me as much.”

  “Then tell me, Blythe. Am I playing the role of murderer, or of an innocent man wrongly accused?”

  “I don’t know,” she said again.

  “Of course you don’t.” He turned away, thrusting his hand into his hair. “And that is why I have to leave. Because no one will ever know, unless I prove it to them.”

  She didn’t answer right away. “When will you go?”

  “Soon. I’d rather not say exactly. Don’t look so glum, princess.” He forced himself to smile. “You’ll be free of me at last.”

  “Yes, but too late to help me! The damage has been done.”

  “Go home, princess,” he advised. “Go back to where you truly belong.”

  Her eyes were a stormy cobalt. “I don’t know where I belong anymore. Another lesson learned from you.”

  “You’ll figure it out. By the by.” He glanced back at her. “Giles is thinking of giving you a part. If you’re wise, you’ll not accept it.”

  “That, sir, is my decision,” she retorted, and walked away, costumes bundled into a ball at her hip and her head held high, as if she really were the princess he called her. In spite of himself he felt a stab of admiration for her courage. God, she was brave! He knew he’d hurt her by his apparent indifference, but what else could he do? He had already done enough to ruin her life. He would not add to his sins. He would instead, he vowed, watching as she disappeared into the barn, clear his name and thus prove himself to her. Then, and only then, would he come back to her. Only then would he have anything to offer her.

  The barn was dark after the bright daylight outside. Blythe paused a moment in her headlong rush, letting her eyes adjust. Drat the man! What right had he to order her about, as if she were his property? She was no man’s, no person’s, for perhaps the first time in her life. She could make her own choices. Just now, though, she had no choice, because he was leaving her. Because he didn’t want her.

  “There you are,” Giles’s voice boomed out, and she stopped, watching him stride across the barn to her. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “I was just outside, sir, and I do need to return these costumes to Mrs. Staples.”

  “A moment, only.” He took her elbow in the overly familiar manner that she had learned was simply his way, forcing her to walk with him. “I’ve a proposition for you.”

  She stopped. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at her, and chuckled. “Not like that, lass. Not with Phoebe to keep me happy.”

  “Oh,” she said again, feeling herself color.

  “No, ‘tis something totally different. You’ve talent, lass. I wonder if you realize it?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t something I’ve ever thought about.”

  “Think about it now, then, eh? I’ve a role in mind I’d like you to try.”

  Blythe bit her lips. Another thing Simon had forbidden her, though he had no right. He wouldn’t even be here, anyway. “I’m not sure ‘tis a good idea. I’m sure to be recognized.”

  “Not in proper costume. You’re an unknown, lass, and ‘tis only your hair that gives you away.” Giles stepped back, studying her with pursed lips. “That blond streak—’tis unusual. If that were covered, though, no one would remark you. You’re much like Phoebe, you see,” he went on, taking her elbow again and leading her deeper into the barn. “You do not draw attention to yourself unless you wish it.”

  That made her frown. “I’m not so sure of that, sir, and one thing I do know. I don’t have Phoebe’s talent.”

  “Likely not,” he agreed. “Her talent is rare. But you’ve some, and presence, lass. Not everyone has that.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “When you are on the stage, you command attention. You make people look at you.”

  Her frown deepened. “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like me at all.”

  “You become the part you act. I’ve watched you do it. And you draw people’s eyes. Now, here.” He stepped back, studying her. “You’re pretty, lass, but not remarkable. Put you in costume, cover your hair and give you a role, and no one will know you. Unless you wish it.”

  “I don’t think that I can do it.”

  “You can,” he answered her, putting his arm around her shoulders in a companionable way. “I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought otherwise.”

  “I never thought of myself on the stage.” It was oddly tempting, what he’d offered her. She’d enjoyed those moments when she’d helped Phoebe, or one of the other troupe members, rehearse; she’d wondered how it would feel to step out on stage and say lines herself. Frightening, yes, but it wouldn’t be her, Blythe, up there. It would be her character. And how wondrous that would be, to bring to life someone who hadn’t previously existed. To live someone else’s life. “I’ll do it,” she said, before she could change her mind. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Good lass. I thought you might.” He squeezed her shoulders and then released her. “‘Tis a small part, only seven lengths long, you’ll have no trouble learning it.”

  “Seven lengths,” Blythe thought, doing some calculating. A length was the page upon which an actor’s part was written, and it usually contained forty-two lines. Seven pages of forty-two lines, each. “I don’t know if I can!”

  “Of course you can. It is a part Odette usually plays, but I want to try you in it.”

  “She’ll be angry,” Blythe said. If Odette had been incensed when Blythe had innocently sat in her chair, how would she react to this?

  “No matter. You’ll play a maid who spies upon her mistress.”

  “It’s not a breeches part?” she asked in surprise.

  “Nay, lass, and why should it be? Ah, because of the soldiers. No, you can do this. Besides”—his glance was shrewd— “play a breeches part and there’s too good a chance yo
u’ll be recognized.”

  Blythe went still. For a moment, she had forgotten. She was being hunted every bit as much as Simon was. If she were wise, she would refuse the part. Certainly acting would do her no good if she wished to clear her name and return to her real life. Or rather, what she had thought was her life. “I’ll do it,” she said again, in that moment defying everyone who had ever dismissed her as the orphan child of foster parents, or as a woman fit only to be an elderly lady’s companion. Let them think as they would; let Simon think as he would. This was something she had to do.

  Sir Hubert Winterborne had rarely felt such excitement in his life. As magistrate for the area he dealt with matters that were boring and sometimes bewildering: the occasional theft of a horse or sheep or goat; complaints about this or that tradesman in Rochester, most of which Sir Hubert handled with great gusto; a dispute or two over property lines. Sir Hubert hadn’t been trained in the law—‘pon rep, he was a gentleman, not in trade!—but he knew his duty. He was the leading gentleman in the neighborhood. Justice was his to dispense as he saw fit.

  And now this man, this fop, was standing there and telling him what to do! “You say we’ve a murderer in our midst,” Sir Hubert rumbled, linking his hands upon his ample belly. “I’ve yet to see a sign of him.”

  “He has been in hiding,” Quentin said, as calmly as possible. God save him from foolish men. Most men were stupid, easily manipulated, and thus good tools to Quentin’s hand. Occasionally, however, the quality that made them valuable also turned them bullheaded. He was having the devil of a time convincing this fool that Simon Woodley was, indeed, in Rochester.

  “With a bunch of actors?” Sir Hubert snorted. “‘Pon rep, the man is not stupid, is he? A theater is the first place anyone would think to look for him.”

  “I disagree.” Quentin sat back. “It is the perfect place for him to hide, for that reason.”

  “Eh? I don’t take your meaning, man.”

  “I know he is there,” Quentin went on, forbearing to explain, yet again, his logic. “I have it on reliable information.” From Odette, as it happened, who was furious that her part had been taken from her.

  “Still seems havey-cavey to me. I can’t call out the county on mere rumors, sirrah! If the man is there, bring me some proof.”

  “I have it on the word of one of the members of the troupe. She tells me—”

  “An actress?” Sir Hubert perked up. “Damme, but I’ve heard of what actresses are like. Little more than strumpets, eh?”

  “If you would like, I’ll introduce you.”

  “I say!” Sir Hubert sat up straight. “That is decent of you, sirrah, dashed decent. But”—he sank back—“a man in my position can’t be seen with someone like her.”

  “Of course not. No one need know, I assure you of that. The meeting will be...private.”

  “Private,” Sir Hubert mused, lips pursed, and then nodded. “What is your plan again?”

  Quentin kept his face straight. So. The fool was finally coming around. “Woodley has been in hiding, I don’t know where,” he explained again, sitting back with one elegantly-hosed leg crossed over the other. “Not in the lodgings with Rowley and the others. He may be at Shepard’s barn with the rest of the troupe, but he does not come to the theater. Miss Marden, however, does.” And an intriguing opponent she was turning out to be, taking the stage as a soldier, of all things. As he remembered, her legs in breeches and silk stockings had been fine. But that was not his purpose, he reminded himself sternly. “I have kept watch this last sennight.”

  “Then we’ll take her,” Sir Hubert blustered.

  “Oh? And give warning to Woodley what we are doing? I do not want the Marden woman.” He recrossed his legs. “I believe if we capture her Woodley will escape. But I also believe that she may be used as a lure for Woodley. Like a fox to hounds.”

  “So we flush him from his cover—”

  “And capture him.” Quentin sat back. “Precisely.”

  “And the woman?”

  “You may leave her to me.” And she might prove to be tolerably entertaining. “Woodley is the prize, Sir Hubert.”

  “Indeed. Indeed.” Sir Hubert pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and blew his nose vigorously. “I like your idea,” he said, stuffing the handkerchief away. “How do you plan to do it?”

  “It’s rather simple.” Quentin leaned forward, keeping the elation from his face by force of long habit. It was a gamble, what he was doing, but then, much of his life had been. Much had depended on the turn of a card; whether he faced success, or ruin. So it was now. “First you must gather your men together...”

  “Better that time,” Katherine said placidly. “Try it again, with more emotion.”

  “I don’t have any emotion left in me.” Blythe’s voice was ragged, and her throat ached. So did her head, while her limbs were weak with exhaustion. Never has she realized that acting was such physically demanding work.

  “Tch. Of course you do. Anger is emotion, is it not? And you are close to anger. Use it.” Katherine leaned forward, dark eyes intent. “Use the energy the anger gives you.”

  Blythe rubbed her throbbing temples. The play was a frivolous thing, a silly story of misunderstandings and mistakes, in which a gentleman, convinced his wife had taken a lover, set a maid to spy on her. But the faithful wife, noticing that her husband’s abstraction and fearing that he has a mistress, convinced a footman to spy on him. When maid and footman meet, there would be yet another dalliance. “‘I would that you would not dally with another.’”

  “No, no.” Katherine held up her hand. “That had all the feeling of a stone! You are supposed to be in love. Haven’t you had a sweetheart?”

  “No,” Blythe replied firmly, though into her mind strode an image she’d as soon ignore. Simon.

  “You lie, I think.” Katherine’s voice was prosaic. “But that is not my concern. Try again.”

  “I can’t.” Blythe dropped down upon a bale of hay in the barn, head in hands. “I’m just so tired.”

  “You go on tonight. You must be ready.”

  The panic that always accompanied that knowledge bubbled up within her again. “I know, but—”

  “No buts! Try again, or do you think you have no talent?”

  “‘I would that you would not dally with another!’” Blythe snapped, glaring at her.

  “Brava!” Katherine applauded. “Very good. Now if you would compose your face, we shall be getting on. It’s a thin line between anger and love, is it not?”

  “I don’t know,” Blythe muttered, looking down at the length. True it was that anger had been behind her passionate outburst, and yet, while she was speaking, she had felt an undeniable jolt of emotion. For a moment she had actually become the lovelorn girl she portrayed. Amazing how that instant of feeling had changed things, made her speak her words differently, made her look at things differently. Like a woman in love.

  “Good. Again, then?”

  “Again,” Blythe agreed, resigned, and recited the lines. If they didn’t have the emotion of her previous attempt, if she didn’t feel that current of energy again, still even she knew that she was doing a creditable job. Her voice had a ring of conviction that earlier it had lacked. Whether she could repeat the performance on stage was another matter. Why, oh why had she agreed to do this?

  “Katherine.” Lester stood before them. “We were supposed to rehearse our scene this afternoon.”

  Katherine frowned. “But I am busy here—but you are right. I’m sorry, Blythe. I must do this.”

  Blythe let her breath out. “I don’t mind.” She could rest at last. Heavens, but she was tired. “I’m glad for the rest.”

  “But you’re not ready,” Katherine fretted, her brow wrinkled. “If there is someone else—ah! Mister, er, Smith.”

  Simon, just coming down the ladder from the loft, continued on. “Mr. Smith,” she called again, and this time he stopped.

  Smith. That
was supposed to be his name, at least to this theater company. That they all knew who he was he didn’t doubt, just as he knew they wouldn’t betray him. “Yes, Katherine?” he asked, crossing to her. Beside her Blythe sat, head bent over a length, not looking at him.

  “You’re needed. Come.” She pushed a sheaf of papers at him. “You are better to rehearse this scene than I am. Sit.”

  “Of course.” He smiled at Katherine as she turned to leave, but the smile quickly faded as he scanned the lengths she handed him. So he was to rehearse a scene with Blythe, was he? No matter that he was opposed to her going onto the stage. No matter that this was a love scene. Hell. This was all he needed.

  “You needn’t rehearse with me if you’d rather not,” Blythe said stiffly.

  He looked up. They’d conversed little in the days since he’d made his decision to leave, and that was just as well. At least, he’d thought so. But, bloody hell, he’d missed her. He hadn’t realized it until now. He’d missed her quick smile, her willingness to help, her sometimes tart observations on life. He’d missed holding her hand, touching her hair. God help him, but he was in bad case. “Do you know your lines?” he forced himself to say, aware that the silence had dragged on for much too long and that she was starting at him.

  “Well enough.”

  “A quick study, are you? Well, let us see,” he said, and read out the first line of the scene. Blythe answered promptly, launching into her part with gusto and flair surprising in an amateur, and he was well and truly caught. For she was not the Blythe he’d come to know: the staid companion, the intrepid adventurer, the stubborn survivor. She was a different Blythe, her lips curved in a soft smile, her eyes alert and teasing and flirtatious beneath their lashes. She was a coquette, speaking the suggestive lines with an intoxicating mixture of innocence and beguiling sensuality. Who had taught her, he wondered? What man had put that smile on her face?

  “Simon,” she said, her voice impatient, and he realized at last that she was staring at him. “Are you going to give me the cue, or not?”